


Fatal Desire

by orphan_account



Category: Naruto
Genre: Complicated Relationships, M/M, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-06
Updated: 2021-01-06
Packaged: 2021-03-16 21:27:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28588758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Is it abuse if you both do it? Is it really battery if you know the other person is begging for it on the inside?
Relationships: Hatake Kakashi/Uchiha Obito
Comments: 7
Kudos: 75





	Fatal Desire

**Author's Note:**

> This fic contains violent kinks and smut, so if you aren't into these things, then I suggest you turn back.

If I had to describe the relationship I have with Obito, I'm not really sure what I'd say. In the literal sense I've known him for about half of my life—that seems like a long time, but in the metaphorical, philosophical bullshit sense, I don't really know him at all. He's like the ghost that lingers in every one of my memories but is never actually present. Hell, when he's standing in front of me I feel like he isn't actually there.

So, our relationship. If you want to call it that. I tend to call it That Thing We Don't Talk About, but for shorthand's sake we'll say relationship. I'm not sure when it started, or if it even had a definite start at all. It's always been building, ever since we were little. We beat up on each other—I don't know any other way to put it. When we were kids it was always screaming, yelling, pulling our own hair out. I said I hated him almost every day, and on some level I bet that was true.

When we were older, it slowly started to change. We got in each other's faces, shoving and pushing along with the cruel, biting words. He'd hit me, and I'd hit him back. We were so angry all the time. We still are angry. Life is hard, and I guess we never learned how to deal with it other than by taking it out on each other. He's the only person that understands what I'm feeling, and I repay him by splitting his lip and giving him a black eye. But that's okay. He's broken at least a handful of my ribs.

I think the real change came about when we started fucking. I don't even know if I'd call it that though—sex and so-called "lovemaking" don't even touch on the same planet of what we do to each other. There isn't a real word to describe it. What we do is rough and primal, with no pretense and no meaning afterwards. It involves blood and teeth, fists and nails, cum and sweat. We tear each other apart, ripping past flesh to try and scratch our way into something deeper under the skin. I don't know if I've ever found anything other than blood and gore under my fingernails, though.

He likes to dominate me, it isn't a secret. I don't let him—or at least I fight him tooth and nail. But somehow I always end up with my face pressed down into the bed, or into the wall or the floor or the counter and he takes me till I bleed. I scream and shout at him, words giving way to guttural noises that somehow have more meaning than a coherent sentence. I think I understand him best when my face is jammed down into a pillow.

I usually scream when I come. There's so much pain that maybe it _is_ pleasure, but I'm never really sure. Sometimes I even black out for a few seconds, and by the time I come back to my senses he's usually getting up to go. He puts his pants back on, covers the bruises and bloody scratches with a jacket, and he leaves. I never mind much; I always feel better after he's had his way with me.

I see him maybe a couple times a week. I never know when he'll come to my apartment, but when he does he never gives me any warning. He just shows up, and we get on with it. I think he especially likes it when he catches me in the middle of something. Usually I'm working on my computer on my latest job, but once he caught me fingering myself. I couldn't walk straight for a week after that.

We've pretty much reached a point where every time he arrives, the wounds from last time are just starting to think about healing. I've had a split lip for probably the last three months. Every time, without fail, he bites it and ends up opening the wound again. It's easy for him when our teeth are clashing and our hands shoving and pawing.

I bet a psychologist would have a helluva time with us; we have issues on top of our issues. Is it abuse if you both do it? Is it really battery if you know the other person is begging for it on the inside? His blood is like nectar and I bathe in it when we fuck. There isn't sex without pain, not for us. It's just the way we are.

It was mid-May when I disrupted the rhythm, the balance between us. Our meetings keep us walking on that line between sanity and insanity, although I'm not sure which side we'd tip onto if we stopped. Maybe that's why I left—to see what would happen. I packed a backpack, got in my car, and drove until I reached the ocean.

I really don't have a reason to be at the beach other than that it's a place that's not my apartment. There's alcohol and sun, two things that I've been in desperate need of lately. I probably look like a car accident victim or something, covered in bruises like I am. I wonder if the women on the beach know I can hear them when they whisper about me behind their piña coladas. The most common reactions are pity and fear; I don't like either, quite frankly, and I always ignore them.

When I'm not lying on the beach or getting drunk at the bar down the road, I just sit in my motel room. It isn't a very classy place, but being in such close proximity to the water is costing me a pretty penny. Soon I'll run out of cash and have to use a credit card, but I'll deal with that when it happens.

The bar is closed by now. I've been going there every night for the last week—I've been here a total of eight days. I'm not doing much of anything at the moment, because I can't sleep. I can never sleep. So I just sit in the middle of my creaky motel room bed in my boxers, smoking my way through a pack of cigarettes. The one lamp I left on at the bedside table bathes parts of the room in unnatural light, leaving others to crawl with darkness. I drag on my cigarette, eyes lingering on the mirror across the room from me. Eight days have given my body some time to heal over. Bruises are now a sickly mix of yellow, green and purple and my lip has scabbed. My body is a mosaic of battle scars from a war that is still going on. I won't win until I'm dead.

I exhale smoke, watching in the mirror as it curls up from my lips. I think I know why I came here now.

I hear the key card click in the door, but I'm not startled. I'm actually surprised that he didn't come sooner, to be honest. I drag on my cigarette again, lazy. I should sleep more. I hate sleeping pills, but maybe I should get something for my insomnia. I'll never be normal unless I sleep like a normal person.

He's standing in front of me, but I'm not really looking at him. I already know the expression on his face, the tension in his body, the chip on his shoulder. I know it all. I look up anyways, meeting his gaze because I know that's what he wants me to do. His dark eyes are smoldering, burning holes through me that hit harder than fists, teeth or burning cigarette butts.

"Hey," I breathe, smoke leaving my lungs in the process.

He snaps. _"Hey?_ Fucking hey? Is that all you have to say to me you piece of shit?" He shoves the closest thing to him—my backpack on the dresser—and it tumbles to the floor, the first victim of his anger tonight.

"No." I push myself up onto my knees, and I'm about the same height as him with the bed beneath me like this. "There are a million things I have to say to you." Without pretense I grab him by the front of his jacket and kiss him hard. His lips attack mine, our teeth knocking and jarring me. He tastes like chocolate, something that I will forever and always associate with Obito. I'm more of a vanilla person; bland, simple, but I work with anything. We swap saliva, his teeth digging into my lower lip, splitting the tentatively healing flesh so fresh blood blossoms there. When I yelp he shoves me, hard, and I fall back on the bed.

He's on me in a second, his fingers pulling out my hair and dragging our lips back together. I groan, a sound that usually only escapes me when he's pounding into me. I press my cigarette out on the shoulder of his leather jacket, and thankfully he doesn't notice. I'm pushing the fabric off a moment later, anyways. His jacket hits the floor, and a moment later his t-shirt joins it. Before I can pet his skin his hand grabs my chin, roughly snapping my head back, my neck cracking in the process. My grunt is barely audible over his growl, muffled against my neck. "You don't get to fucking leave." His voice is gritty and low; my hips squirm beneath him, an action totally out of my control.

"Who says I left?" My voice is breathy. His reply is to sink his teeth into my shoulder, tearing into flesh. Pain blossoms and I cry out, trying to knee him to get him off but in our current position I can't get leverage.

"Hypocrite," I say between clenched teeth. I'm tasting my own blood, my lip oozing, the sharp metallic taste setting me on edge. Blood is another thing that always makes me think of him. Tasting it, smelling it, watching it leak out of my skin—it reminds me of him.

"Bitch," he hisses, dragging his teeth across the fresh bite mark, making me squirm and shiver. His hand is still holding fast to my chin, so I can't look down and see his face.

"You came all the way here just to fuck me?" My voice sounds harsh, even to my own ears, which are ringing.

"Don't flatter yourself." His dark laugh puts me on edge. "I came here to teach you a lesson." His free hand grabs my side, his hold firm enough to leave bruises. He keeps my torso still while he leans down to trail moist lips along my chest. My eyes become half hooded, lulled into false security by the warmth of his breath and the moist, firm pressure of his lips. Sure, he's still grabbing me too hard, but I'm used to it. I can imagine—at least for a second—that he wants this like I do. That the world doesn't exist outside of this hotel room.

"I want to move here," I breathe, the words leaving my parted lips without thinking.

His harsh laugh crashes me back to earth, and coupled with his nails digging into the sensitive flesh of my side, I whimper. "After this I'm dragging you back—if you can still walk, that is."

My hands reach down, blindly finding his hair, both of them threading into the soft locks. I still can't look at him, so I close my eyes, steeling myself. "Stay." The word drops like a lead ball from my lips, leaving a strained silence for several beats.

Finally my eyes flutter open, and he's pinning me with his piercing gaze. I swallow, unable to look away.

"Shut. The fuck. Up."

I do, but only because his mouth crashes into mine again, bruising my already swollen, aching lips. My nails drag down his shoulders, tearing open old wounds and forging new paths. I like to imagine my nails are dipped in ink instead of blood, and that I'm painting a story on his back. I don't know how it ends though, or what kind of story it is. His hands are in my boxers before I know it, roughly pulling down, fabric scratching over my skin. I grunt, allowing my hips to lift up so he can rid me of the useless thing. I'm naked and he's not; I think he likes it like this, because I get to be the vulnerable one. I don't really mind. I'm still busy painting our story in blood. If he's in any pain or discomfort, he doesn't show it. I think we're both numb towards pain at this point.

I don't even see him unfasten his jeans, but next thing I know he's right there. I won't lie, I've been with other men, but there's something distinctly Obito that I can't explain. I could be blind, deaf, bound and gagged, and I'd still know it was his cock pressing up against me. (Although, in truth, Obito is probably the only person I know who would take pleasure in putting me in a position like that.) A small mewl slips past my lips as his hands grip my legs, pressing them up. The tendons at the backs of my thighs tighten and muscles flex, the flesh tense and rippling with anticipation. It doesn't take long—he doesn't even bother to prepare me. I bet he hopes I'll bleed. Maybe a part of me hopes I'll bleed, too.

I scream when he thrusts into me. It doesn't even sound like me—high and desperate. The cry fades to a soft keening in my throat, my eyelids heavy and my lower lip clutched between my teeth. Blood leaks into my mouth, snaking down the back of my throat. My erection is throbbing between my legs, standing at attention but ignored by the man violating me without proper lubrication. The next few thrusts are rough and erratic as he forces my body to submit to his. I wonder if it's as uncomfortable for him as it is for me; it's dry and tight, no doubt. Slowly but surely the movements become fluid. I can barely breathe, my entire body shuddering every time he thrusts into me.

If all you know is pain, sometimes you can find pleasure in it.

The bed bangs against the wall every time we move, letting my neighbors know that I'm definitely getting some. (Some of _what,_ exactly, I'm not really sure. Again, I don't know if this constitutes fucking or methodical battery.) His nails are drawing blood from my hips now; I can feel the warm slickness between my body and his hands; sweat and blood. I can barely breathe. Each thrust feels like it's taking away a part of my soul, things I'll never get back from him. My hands grip his shoulders harder as he pounds into the most intimate places of my body. I thrust up to meet him, because I want him to have those pieces of me. I don't want them back; I want them to live on in him. I want to be a part of him, like he's a part of me.

I come; he doesn't even have to touch me. My hands—they somehow ended up on the bed—are fisting into blankets, and I'm screaming for him, his name coming in broken cries from my lips. I can barely take it—the heat, the pleasure, I think it might consume me. People have died from lesser things. My heart is trying to beat out of my chest, fireworks exploding behind my eyes. Every nerve ending is on fire, leaving me hypersensitive and tingling.

When I feel a warm burst inside of me I know he's joined me in pleasure, but I can barely hear his groan over the ringing in my ears. His hips give a few more thrusts, earning a whimper from me. Everything feels weak and mushy, like I'm a jellyfish. A bloody, sexually sated jellyfish. He pulls out before my body is ready to let him go, causing me to shudder, back arching faintly. I watch with hooded eyes as he gets his t-shirt from the corner, pulling it on. He's still in his pants and boots. His jacket goes on next.

He turns to face me then. "If you're not back in your apartment tomorrow, you're going to be sorry." Even though other people wouldn't notice, I can see the changes in him. His shoulders aren't quite so tense, and his voice is an octave softer.

Slowly I push myself up to sit, the soreness starting to set in as the endorphins wear off. "Hey… come here," I say softly. I'm surprised when he actually does, eyeing me suspiciously all the while. I reach up, grasping the front of his shirt to pull him down for a firm kiss. I release him a moment later and he retreats. My blood has found its way to his lips, and I can't help but smile a little when I see his tongue dart out to taste it.

We're far from perfect, and we're certainly not normal, but we're us. It might not mean much to anyone but me, but I think that's what I came here to find out—Obito and I are unconventional and spiteful, but we need each other. I'm glad I know that now.

"See you at my apartment?" I ask.

He grunts, going to the door. "Don't be late," he reminds, sending me a withering glare over his shoulder, warning me of the threat that waits if I don't obey.

I just smile faintly. "I'll be there—for you."

And I will.


End file.
